Pocket and the Chicken Broth

I went to the vet last week for my yearly exam and shots.  I was my usual brave, trembling self. Everything was going swimmingly until she insisted on looking in my mouth.  I did my best to keep my little jaws clenched. But the vet forced them open, a clear violation of the Dog Vet Act of 1972, and announced that once again I would have to get my teeth cleaned — what a bother.

Then they began to discuss my experiencing bad poopies a few times a month. How embarrassing!  I don't talk about their poopies, and believe me; I could tell you stories that would curl your tail.

The vet gave my parents a sample bag of the ridiculously expensive Hill's prescription food for sick tummies. Mommy read the ingredients.  Corn corn corn corn spam corn and corn. Mommy told me I wouldn't be having any of that.

The vet also told my parents about a prescription food called Calm that is supposed to quell anxiety in dogs.  Who the hell makes the stuff Doctor Cosby? Another hard no. They also gave my mom a small container of Hill's wet food.  Mummy figured it couldn't hurt

At dinner time they gave me a little scoop of the wet food.  At first, I carefully sniffed it. Then I took a bite. This crap was good!  I ate all of it and properly motivated. I consumed all the kibbles too. The can last six meals, and I ate every last bite.

I made my case to the ruling party:  Mommy and Daddy that I should continue to have wet food.   They quickly ruled in my favor, but not the Hill’s expensive kind.  Daddy came home with two little packets of food. These tiny servings are known as the Big Rip Off.  Parents can choose between a big can or the small package with a quarter of the food for the same price.  I can’t believe how many people buy those little packets over the cans. “I don't know why, there's just something about them I like,” humans say.  This generation wouldn't have lasted thirty seconds in the Depression

But he didn't just bring home food.

  He made a unilateral decision and brought home a rare delicacy known as bone broth.  Mommy poured the broth over my food and placed it before me. I took several sniffs. Then I gave an exploratory taste.

Oh my!  The bland kibble came alive on my tongue.  I tasted things I had never experienced before. If food is love, then I was Robert Kraft at a strip mall massage parlor.  Just give me more.

The people at the pet store said there are unlimited health benefits when you add a little broth to your food. It helps your tummy, makes your bowels never runny, makes the darkest day sunny, it cures your dandruff, it gets rid of blackheads, the heartbreak of psoriasis, it's guaranteed not to give you an erection lasting more than 4 hours.  It's the real thing, the pause that refreshes, paw licking good.


I'm not going to recommend a specific brand of broth; they all look the same to me.  But if you're a picky eater, I suggest your humans pick up a box And tell em Pocket Dog sent you.

Wordless Wednesday

Beat This Caption

"Wait, stop, I don't have my face on!"

Monday Question

How often do you get a bath?  Do you get a bath because your parents think you smell?  What products do you use?  Where do you get bathed?  Do you go to the groomer?

Our answer:  We used to get baths once a week but Mommy has pushed them back to every two weeks.  Mommy thinks we smell when we haven't had a bath.  Daddy doesn't smell it.  That's the thing about parents.  We use Espree Oatmeal shampoo and another conditioner. We don't know why we have a conditioner but we do.  Mommy says it makes our hair smell better.  We go to the groomers every six weeks.  We get bathed in the tub.

Belle is our February 24 2019 Pup of the Week

When I agreed to leave the love and comfort of my family to accept the position of judge at Rainbow Bridge I had to leave a lovely home where I was well cared for, my meals were exquisitely prepared, and where no dog could be more loved.  I understood why the Big Guy wanted to hire me as a judge. In my career as the world's most renown dog lawyer, I had established a reputation for fairness and even minded decisions. If the Big Guy wanted me he needed to negotiate.

I told him if I was going to give up my house and leave my parents brokenhearted I demanded the ability to inform all parents that after their babies crossed the Bridge they were okay, they were loved, and would be taken care of until that day came when they would be reunited with their parents.  

“Absolutely not,”`the Big Guy balked.  “Communication between the immortal and mortal worlds is forbidden.”   I told him that was fine with me. I would stay with my mother until I was 22 years old, trailing a little oxygen tank behind me, toothless, mostly witless, but where I belong.

“Just out of curiosity,” the Big Guy asked, “how did you intend to communicate with the other side?” I told him I would write a blog.  He began to laugh so hard it sounded like a hundred thunderstorms converging as one. “A dog blog?” he asked. “Like anybody's reading that.  Sure have your little delusion of grandeur. Come here and blog away.”

For once the Big Guy was wrong. I have tried to comfort parents who have lost their babies. Trying is all an angel can do.  

This week I met a beautiful yellow dog named Belle Belle.  She had left her broken-hearted mother Amy Michelle Tucker and her family behind.  

I wrote the following for the benefit of Belle Belle's lovely mom, who was, until today been unaware this blog existed. I understand if many long-time readers find the next passage repetitive, but I am trying to ease someone's pain.  Is there no more noble cause to make one put thoughts to paper?

When Belle Belle took her last breath, her soul left her body.  It floated to the nearest body of water. The tide carried it down the river and over streams until it came to the River of Life which separates the mortal and immortal worlds. The River of Life restored Belle Belle's body. She swam ashore then instinctively followed the path which led to Rainbow Bridge.  Belle ran over the Bridge, crossing the river, then up the long winding stairway which brought her to the cliff where I swore her in. All the animals and people who knew her and had preceded her to the Bridge were there to give her hugs and 1,000 kisses. Rainbow Bridge is a place of continuing departures and reunions.

When Belle Belle was acclimated she began to take important classes; including how to visit her loved ones still on the mortal side; how to switch bodies with birds, butterflies and other pretty winged creatures who can fly back and forth between the two sides; and how to become a ghost.  Belle Belle took a right to it and is planning many visits to her mom in several different winged forms. She learned how to fly into the sun and enter her mother's dreams. She knows her mother might remember one in a million of these visits, but that remembrance could make her smile for a week.  She even learned how to concentrate so hard on the love she has with her mother that she could appear right next to her in ghostly form and brush up against her mom, smell her sweet scent, close her eyes and pretend they were together again.

Belle Belle has chosen a home much like the one she lived with her parents.  The dogs who preceded Belle Belle to the Bridge live with her. They know she was rarely without her mom and they make sure she's never alone now.  If you walk by the house, the sound of dogs playing can be heard constantly. And if you travel through fields and hills around it you will often see Belle happily running in the sun, all the pain she had in the later parts of her life have been stripped away.

We hope this might bring some small momentary comfort to Belle’s mom.  Beside this meager offering we can tell her to watch for birds that stay near her a little longer than normal, for butterflies who seem exceedingly daring and fly close by her head;  and for those unexplained things that she sees out of the corner of her eye. If this occurs, she should know Belle Belle is still with her, and that someday they will be gloriously reunited.


It's the only thing that can keep you Angel parents going.

How Foley Became a Norse God

We have a lot of gods at the Bridge. There is the Big Guy.  He's in charge. But there are a lot of other souls who say the god they worship is the one true God. To see the Big Guy you have to climb to the top of the highest mountain where he contemplates his creation from above the clouds.  You can walk right up to a lesser god.

One day I became a god.  I didn’t mean to, all I wanted was a good pretzel.  To get the delicious ones you have to go to the Norse land.  I got sidetracked on my route and ended up wandering into a valley surrounded by mountains. There was a big stone hammer blocking my way.  

I put my little teeth on it and moved the hammer out of the way. 

“She lifted the hammer,” a woman, who had been walking her yak, yelled. “Hail the true Thor!”  I turned around searching for the new deity. There were a dozen peasants gathered around me. “We must adore her for she is the one true Lord,” an elder exclaimed.  Oh boy.

I tried to tell them that this wasn't necessary.  There was some mistake. I just wanted a pretzel. But once a Norse man gets an order, like an overly trained dog, their fidelity cannot be broken.
  
    They were genuflecting towards me. Then a large, handsome, blonde man with muscles that a girl could go for pushed his way through the circle and demanded an audience with me.  He got down on one knee so we could speak privately.

“Little dog what are you doing?” he asked.  “Lifting the hammer is my thing. My brother is the god of mischief.  My father is the one-eyed raven coated god of us all. I was the guy who could lift the hammer.  You took my gig.”

I apologized and told him I meant no offense.  I suggested I try to lift the hammer again, fail, and then he could say I was a false god and I could get my pretzel.

“Gadzooks, now that’s a plan,” he said agreeing.  We walked back to the circle. He challenged me to pick up the hammer.  I put it in my mouth strained a little bit and lifted it in the air. Damn! The thing was like a twig. I could not fake being unable to pick it up.  Norsemen were weak! People cheered and proclaimed I was the true Hammer God.

“Fine,” Thor yelled.  “You think I need this crap from you people?  Every time you want to remodel a cave you call old Thor.  Come knock down a wall for us. We want to make a sunroom.  Well, forget it. Call the damn little dog next time.” He began to walk away sadly.  

Despite his ravings, I could tell he would very much miss being the hammer god.  The position meant nothing to me. I just wanted a pretzel. I told my acolytes that I, a mere dog was not worthy to rule them. They cried no.  Who could blame them? I am an awesome god.  

“I am going to leave Thor in my steed to wield my hammer,” I told them. Thor, who had been silently weeping while slowly shuffling away, stopped.  

“But dog Thor where will you go?” one of my worshippers asked. I promised I would go on a quest to bring them the most excellent mead and grog in the land.  I would travel to strange lands — first, the mysterious world of old Milwaukee. Then into the mountains of Coors Country. Finally, I would go into the deepest depths of  Anheuser’s Busch. I would return riding a magnificent beast known as the Clydesdale. Then there would be a feast with beer and grog for all.

They chanted my name.  Thor came over and picked me up and put me on his broad shoulders. I held my paw up to silence them. I said I must leave immediately.  They even gave me my little horse to ride. I crested a hill then stopped and looked back at them. “Dilly Dilly,” I yelled.

“Dilly Dilly,” they replied.

Then I rode away to get a pretzel.  In a few months, I would arrange to have a few kegs dropped off in their area.  Dog Thor always keeps her promises.


And that is how I became a Norse God.

River Song and the Westminster Baking Competition

Everyone is familiar with the Westminster dog show where dogs are judged by the standards placed upon them by humans.  
There are other events that same weekend.  These were created by and judged by, dogs themselves.  This is an event where we don't have to please humans and meet their expectations.  The only opinion that matters are the dogs.

The competitions include toy destuffing, chair leg chewing, counter surfing, tissue shredding, toilet water licking, marathon barking, and many more.

My specialty is baking.  It is something I have to hide from my parents.  Some dogs pace nervously, bark loudly or destroy the house when their parents are away.  I jump on the counter, turn on the stove, and create.

I have to manage my time carefully.  Humans get upset when they come home and find you shredded the newspaper.  But when they see a bacon souffle cooking, there's real trouble.

I started my baking career slowly, a batch of oatmeal cookies, watermelon squares, turkey and potato pastries.  When I mastered these recipes, I advanced to sausage and jelly torts, pumpkin cupcakes with bacon bits, and a turkey truffle.

Not all my recipes turned out as expected.  Luckily I have a captive audience to taste my goods.

When our parents leave the house Pocket is crated while I roam wherever I please.   This allows me to shove my creations into her crate and tell her either she eats it, or I will say she pooped a cannoli.  She would be in a doctor’s office getting tested for weeks. Pocket has an advanced pallet. If she gobbles up my creations, I know I have created a masterpiece.  If her eyes roll back, her tail sags and a mighty winds blow from her backside I need to try again. She has helped me to become a master baker. And my apologies to her because most of her belly issues, and having to eat limited diet food, is because of my baking fails.

This year I finally worked up the courage to compete in dog baking contests. My salmon and rice cupcakes got me to the Massachusetts state finals where I took the first place ribbon with my lamb tiramisu.

All these competitions took place at night while our parents slept.  We used Foley’s downloading method to go to the events. We entered a link on the computer then jumped on the keyboard and were uploaded to the site.  We got home the same way.
Westminster was going to be the crowning achievement of my baking career.  I made a kangaroo cake with peas and watermelon icing. A nervous Pocket, always afraid she was about to get caught, reluctantly agreed to travel with me.

There were a hundred dogs with their dazzling creations.  The first judge, Hollywood, a shaggy sheepdog, tasted my cake.  He let it settle on his tongue for a long time then swallowed. “I like how the watermelon helps bring out some of the flavors in the kangaroo,” he said.  “And the peas are an unexpected surprise.”

The second judge, an immaculately groomed poodle named Merry Berry, was more interested in the presentation.  “It holds together very nicely,” she said. She took a big bite. “The watermelon icing gives it a nice texture.”

Then she vomited it on the floor.  Hollywood jumped down and licked it up.  “It holds up very well after regurgitation,” he said.  “The vomit has a watermelon aroma which is pleasing Now we just have to wait for Merry to poop it out.  After I taste that, we will let you know if you are going forward in the competition.”

It was a long wait for Merry to poop.  Older dogs are rarely regular. It was getting close to morning, and I was worried because we would be in big trouble if we weren't in bed when Mama woke up.  Finally Hollywood said that Mary had passed the cake. “I'm afraid her poop tasted like crap. Better luck next year.”

I shot Pocket an angry look. She was my poop taster.  “It's not my fault,” she pleaded. “Mommy picked the poop up before I could eat it.”  Just my luck, Mommy chose that moment to be fast.

I was disappointed but never discouraged.  As soon as we got home, I began planning my creation for next year's competition. If I can figure out how to keep poop from tasting like crap I am sure I will get a ribbon.


Now, if you excuse me, it is time to bark.